


The Missing Years

by En_Raev



Series: Not Quite Right, 1910-1928, Downton Abbey, West Riding of Yorkshire. [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 1910-1912, Edwardian Period, Gen, M/M, Missing Scene, Other, POV Multiple, Period-Typical Homophobia, Secret Relationship, Servant shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-02-08 02:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21468916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/En_Raev/pseuds/En_Raev
Summary: Thomas arrives at Downton wholly underprepared to handle Watson and O'Brien's schemes. He ends up caught up in the middle (obviously) while trying to figure how to make a secret homosexual relationship with a Duke work (becausewhy not?).But everybody knows servants are a meddling kind of people...
Relationships: Mr. Watson/Thomas (unrequited), Thomas Barrow & Anna Smith (later Bates), Thomas Barrow & Elsie Hughes & Beryl Patmore, Thomas Barrow & Sarah O'Brien, Thomas Barrow/Duke of Crowborough
Series: Not Quite Right, 1910-1928, Downton Abbey, West Riding of Yorkshire. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1521608
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	1. Introductions are made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For further info on updates and series structure see the series notes. Heed the warnings and tags.

#####  **Spring 1910, March**

  
  


Thomas looked up at the head of the table and noticed the butler was eyeing him crossly, no matter the fact that he was even bothering to keep both hands on the table like Mossleigh's head-housemaid had taught him was good form to do. He looked back down at his half-full plate and thought perhaps the butler wanted him to finish his leech soup. It was good after all, a far cry from his mother's soup, which was usually a lot lumpier than this one, but he just wasn't hungry. And now he was even less hungry after thinking of his mother.  
  
Eventually Thomas resorted to eating the rest of his soup anyway and when he looked up again he saw that the butler was no longer looking at him, instead speaking softly to the housekeeper. A sigh of relief escaped him, the man's stare was like a knife, sharply making sure you always stayed in line. The housemaid sitting directly in front of him flashed up a smile at him. She was a little mousey thing with blond hair and bright eyes who wouldn't stop chatting with her friend, stopping only briefly to swallow down a spoonful of her own soup, _somehow_ managing to avoid choking on it in her haste to get back to their gossip.  
  
Mr. Watson was studiously listening in on the conversation at the head of the table, pitching in when required. However, he seemed reluctant to let Thomas out of his sight and would often turn towards him, as if to make sure the boy hadn't made a run for the hills upon meeting the butler for the first time in such a peeved mood. The woman sitting right beside him followed his gaze until it landed on the newest addition at the servant's table.  
  
She had such a sour expression on her face Thomas was starting to wonder whether the cook had squeezed some lemon juice in her soup by mistake. She looked back at Mr. Watson then glanced towards Thomas once more, then twice. Suddenly, a disquieting grin washed away most of her frown. Hastily, Thomas turned away from her to look at the maids again and found them watching him intently and giggling all the while.  
  
He risked a look at the other hall boys and found them staring at him much like the maids were doing, only there was obvious jealousy in their gazes. He seemed to be the girls' only topic of conversation for the night. Blushing madly at being the center of attention, Thomas hung his head and wished dinner would be over soon. He'd had enough of the curious stares for the night. He supposed introductions could wait 'til the morning.

* * *

Mr. Carson watched impatiently as Mrs. Hughes re-organised the day's inventory on a multitude of paper sheets. Unfortunately, he was well aware it could take a long time for her to pay him attention, most likely it wouldn't happen any time soon and he just didn't have the patience to wait that night. He had run out of it at the dinner table.  
  
"I cannot believe Mr. Watson saw it fit to _hire_ a hall boy- can you believe it, Mrs. Hughes?" he asked pacing around her sitting room.  
  
"He most certainly did _not_ hire a hall boy, Mr. Carson. His Lordship will decide whether to take him on or send him back tomorrow morning." she remained looking at the inventory, unfazed.  
  
"Well he is already here and I don't suppose His Lordship was much listening when I reminded him we have no need for another hall boy." Mrs. Hughes raised her head at that.  
  
"Well that isn't very surprising since he was greeting Her Ladyship, is it?" she pointed out.  
  
"Should I remind him again in the morning?"  
  
"I believe that is up to you to decide, Mr. Carson. However, there might be a point to Mr. Watson's reasoning if you are going to promote Harold to second footman.  
  
The butler stopped pacing and looked over at the housekeeper as she reminded him of yet another annoying problem he was being called to resolve. In all the hubbub of His Lordship's return and the boy's unexpected arrival, he had forgotten he needed to sort out the footmen once and for all. He thought of how the former first footman, Joseph, had married a girl from Thirsk and left without so much as a week of notice. His blood pressure raised dangerously again.  
  
Now he was left with a second-suddenly-turned-first footman who believed himself the cock-of-the-walk and a gaggle of hall boys all trying to get in his good graces so they'd be made second footman and get a raise in their pay- oh, and the maids' attention of course. He had enough on his plate already without Mr. Watson stepping out of line and bringing in _strays_ for His Lordship to hire.  
  
" Good night, Mr. Carson." the housekeeper watched him close the door, the butler too lost in his own thoughts to remember to say anything back, then went back over the inventory sheets again. She was met with an inordinate amount of scribbles and numbers which, she tiredly decided, could _definitely_ wait 'til the morning.

* * *

Thomas watched frozen as the servants barely had time to gobble down their breakfast in between setting up for the day and answering the calls as the family woke. One glance at the bell panel let him know there were a lot more rooms in Downton Abbey than there were in Mossleigh Manor, and those were just the ones with a bell. Judging by the sheer size of the place, there must have been three times as many in total, if not even more.  
  
He kept waiting for somebody to give him a job to do, or for the housekeeper to assign him a list of chores, but he was mostly ignored unless he happened to be standing in somebody's way to fulfilling their duties. The pace at which everybody was moving was insane, things at the Manor were quite different, more relaxed. Here, there were many more rooms and maids and _people_ whose role in the household Thomas wasn't sure of and generally many more things to _get done_.  
  
It wasn't quite clear to Thomas just how many daughters the Earl of Grantham had, but compared to the Viscount Onslow, who had no wife and only a dog for company, he certainly had a larger family, which explained the amount of servants needed to run the magnificent house.  
  
After the family's breakfast had been laid out and things seemed to calm down a bit, Thomas was thinking of going in search of the housekeeper when Mr. Carson, the butler, told him it was time to go up to the library and see His Lordship.  
  
"But why would he want to see me, Mr. Carson? Did I do something wrong?" he was terrified he'd be sent away, and what if they didn't want him back at the Manor, after all he _had_ left without notice, where would he go?  
  
Mr. Watson looked up from the previous day's newspaper and, with a shit-eating grin on his face which told Thomas this was probably something he had engineered himself, reassured him: "Don't worry Thomas, he'll just want to make sure you're not a heathen".  
  
With a menacing grumble on his breath, Mr. Carson led Thomas up the stairs to the library and all of a sudden Thomas was standing in front of an _Earl_. To think he had only ever seen the Viscount once, and it was really by mistake, the boot boy was not supposed to be snooping about upstai-  
  
And then His Lordship was speaking, not to him, to Mr. Carson, and they were discussing the house's need for a new footman, and Mr. Carson was saying "I had thought of promoting one of the hall boys, m'lord-"  
  
And His Lordship was cutting him off "Oh nonsense, Carson, we have the perfect footman right here, don't we? Now what is your name again?"  
  
And Thomas was left blinking confusedly, answering "Thomas, m'lord" and wondering how in the whole wide world he had been appointed _footman_ out of the blue.

* * *

He was staring at his green-vested livery in silent awe when he heard the same maid from the night before giggle to her friend as they passed him by with a load of linens for the laundry. She smiled at him again, all teeth but endearing all the same, and said "I'm Anna and this is Mabel" and then she kept on talking.  
  
"Are you the new footman?".  
  
"His name's Thomas, I heard Mr. Watson tell the cook that Mrs. Hughes said he's-"  
  
"_Mabel_-"  
  
"-and really pretty, more than any other footman we've ever had in the house-"  
  
She seemed to have said something about his height as well, but he had gotten lost in their playful banter and sort of missed the point Mabel was trying to make (a very important point it seemed, according to Mr. Watson). For some reason, a footman was required to be in a certain height range and Thomas, with his 5'9", was smack down in the middle of that, making him absolutely perfect for the job.  
  
As he was left speechless by the gossiping maids, he remembered Mrs. Hughes's instructions to start refitting the livery to his own frame and he turned to ask Her Ladyship's maid if he could borrow needle and thread until he purchased his own. To his renewed surprise she was already studying him attentively from beneath her curls and agreed amiably to his request, which prompted the maids into stunned silence as that was the most polite answer they had ever heard Ms. O'Brien give to anybody _ever_.  
  
Mr. Watson emerged from the kitchen just as Thomas accepted the sewing kit and upon stumbling onto such a disconcerting scene he fixed the boy with a withering glare full of disappointment.  
  
_So this is how he repays me for having him promoted to footman, he sucks up to O'Brien instead- what a tart, that boy is-_  
  
Thomas was left by the turn of events in the middle of a triangle formed by a smug-looking lady's maid, a fuming valet and two floored maids, whining to himself _what have I done wrong this time?_  
  
He held his new livery and borrowed kit tight in his hands, feeling quite bewildered himself.


	2. Sympathies

#####  **Spring 1910, April**

Thomas was miffed. Mr. Carson expected him to know the difference between a butter pick and a lemon fork. Apparently, the simple difference of adding a tine to a piece of silver which already had two of them could make the whole task of juicing citruses a lot easier than a measly two-tined fork ever could. Which explained the presence of a second butter pick, and why one of them had an extra tine in the middle.  
  
He had no idea how he was supposed to have known that without anybody properly explaining the difference to him. Mrs. Barrow could barely afford sugar at times, nevermind lemons. So how in the world was he supposed to have known the toffs needed a special fork to juice them without having the seeds falling into their plates? Mind you, _neither_ of them was actually a fork. For some strange reason, one was a pick and the other was a juicer- although the toffs did refer to it as a fork sometimes.  
  
Even though both looked exactly like... forks.  
  
With a sigh, Thomas returned to his duty: polishing. His task- or "responsibility, Thomas" as Mr. Carson had put it -was to make sure every single piece of the family's second favourite dining set _shined_ by tea time. Which meant a lot of Silvo was going to be involved. The stale fumes in the pantry attested to that.  
  
It also meant learning the hard way what every piece was called, if not necessarily what it was used for. It wasn't like Thomas was ever going to use a butter pick after all. His knife was more than sufficient to the purpose of spreading butter on his toast, of that he was sure.  
  
To be honest, he was still a bit baffled at the amount of work that polishing turned out to be. Thomas had always thought that the maids washing the flatware would be responsible for making sure it shined. As it was, the maids were barely allowed to touch the bone china to wash it never mind polishing silver or crystal.  
  
The first footman explained to him earlier that if not for the break in footmen's duties due to Joseph's surprise marriage stunt, it would still be up to the two of them to wash all porcelain and glassware, before any polishing needed doing.  
  
"Mr. Carson's still wrapping his head 'round it, to be honest. But I don't think he will make us resume that duty. He's got _more_ for us, mind you."  
  
Harold had a real talent when it came to interpreting Carson's dispositions. Or he was otherwise well-versed in the art of eavesdropping from behind the butler's door whenever he discussed matters of household organization with the housekeeper and the cook.  
  
Not that Thomas had noticed him hanging around flattening his ear to said door. He just found it hard to believe Harold had any talent beyond that of sucking up. That he was real perfect at. That and juggling Mrs. Patmore's- sadly -thoroughly toasted scones in the servant's hall. Why nobody seemed willing to save him from the embarassment was beyond Thomas. Then again, the maids were too busy laughing at him to tell him to stop.  
  
The tiny oyster forks he was holding wouldn't even be used that night, nor in the foreseeable future. Thomas sighed for the hundredth time that day and set to making all the tines align perfectly. Even though the next time they were indeed used they would probably end up misaligned again. These forks were too thin in the handle.

* * *

"Fancy a smoke?" said Ms. O'Brien offering him one.  
  
"Don't see why not" said Thomas accepting it.  
  
He coughed up a lung with the first exhale and Ms. O'Brien laughed at his unintentional display of candour. She looked younger for a few seconds. Almost pretty.  
  
"Just haven't smoked in a while" he tried, but they both knew he was feigning dignity just for the sake of it.  
  
She didn't call him out on it.  
  
Instead, she looked at him with a pensive air for a few seconds and then proceeded to ask him a question which shocked Thomas's wits out of him.  
  
"Are you real good friends with Mr. Watson or just bum chums?" Thomas was bewildered at such a display of crude talking from a lady's maid.  
  
"Wh-... What?" he croaked out.  
  
"You're a pretty nan I'll give you that."  
  
"What- I don't understand, why would you think that?" the poor boy was terrified, almost shaking in cold sweat in front of her and Ms. O'Brien had a rare notion of pity for him. There was no fun in terrifying a boy younger than the years he showed.  
  
"You should at least try to deny it when somebody asks, you clot. You won't get far if you don't at least pretend to be offended by the insinuation."  
  
"Well, I am offended by the insinuation" Thomas stuttered "but I was confused by whatever made you think to ask in the first place."  
  
"Boy, you are a young one, aren't you? How old are you lad?"  
  
"...Sixteen."  
  
"..."  
  
"..."  
  
"..."  
  
"Alright, fifteen."  
  
"I won't be friends with fools, Thomas. Try again" She tried not to feel insulted by the obvious lie.  
  
"I'm fourteen. Don't tell, I look older so they didn't ask many questions" Thomas caved.  
  
"I never thought of telling anybody. I simply wondered if I might've been right in guessing Mr. Watson's interest in you."  
  
She hadn't. The boy was far too young to prove interesting to Watson for another few years at least. Maybe less, he did look older than his age. And he did have remarkable features. Would you look at that, already he was inhaling without trouble. What a lack of gag reflex. It must have only been the shock of the first drag then.  
  
Perhaps she hadn't been wrong at all. Still young if not wholesome- it had not escaped her notice that the boy had showed an unhealthy lack of surprise at her assessment, only a frightened fight-or-flight reaction. Now he'd stopped looking at her nervously and was pretending to be interested in the rapidly clouding sky.  
  
"D'you think it will rain soon? Lady Sybil's still out with the dog" he said. But he was sweating in the chilly air.  
  
No, she hadn't been wrong at all. Watson had no chance with any of the maids: pretty little things were under direct supervision of Mrs. Hughes, the formidable housekeeper. But he wasn't deterred by what hung between a boy's legs when he was only interested in what lied _behind them nuts_. She'd had proof of it during their last stay in London. She'd heard him say the hushed words to a street lad in the dark of the alley behind Grantham House's back garden.  
  
Perhaps he hadn't had this one yet, but it wouldn't be long if she had the man pegged right- and she knew she had him pegged right. Thomas would have to thread carefully and, even more important, learn to keep roumors at bay.

* * *

Mrs. Hughes was fully aware of Mr. Carson's unhappiness with the newly acquired boot-boy-turned-footman-at-His-Lordship's-whim. She also knew Mr. Carson would never in a hundred years take the liberty of remarking on it to His Lordship so soon after the decision had been made. A few months would have to pass for the butler to be able to suitably justify the boy's sacking.  
  
However, that certainly didn't stop him from glowering at said boy at the most miniscule slip. She found at times it was almost ridiculous that poor Thomas would have to suffer for every oversight in Harold's work. It was clear as day the cocky older boy was jealous of the attention Thomas gathered amongst the maids and he would take any chance at puerile shows of one-upmanship. Alas, such were the usual hardships of young footmen.  
  
Mr. Carson wouldn't be deterred in his opinion that the boy was an irrefutable flirt, an attention seeker. Earlier that day he had entered her sitting room declaring that Thomas must be _incompetent_ for he still hadn't known a lemon pick after weeks of polishing duty with Harold. So peeved he had been by it he had laid into the boy quite heavily, reminding him to pay _proper attention_ to the first footman's explanations instead of dilly-dallying in the halls.  
  
She hadn't had the heart to reveal the truth to him: the footman he'd heard had been humouring the maids had in fact been Harold. Poor Thomas was having to learn to polish and even sharpen the knives on his own. But if he was too proud to ask for help, then he would have to deal with the injustice on his own.  
  
She had showed the new footman the quickest ways around the house after finding him lost more than once in those first few days and he had thanked her quietly as if to not be heard in the rare show of manners. Awfully mannered he was, but with the best servant's blank Mr. Carson had seen in years upstairs. Such was the only reason why Mr. Carson had to find him tolerable after all: the family had taken well to him, young and good-looking as he was, and he was a quick learner when the butler took the time to explain things to him beforehand. And when the first footman couldn't skimp his more cumbersome duties by piling them on Thomas.

* * *

Mr. Carson looked at the scene before his eyes with suspicion evident in the set of his eyebrows. Thomas was showing extensive knowledge of clockwork in resetting Her ladyship's drawing room Ansonia _Marchioness_.  
  
"I wonder where you picked that up" the silly blonde maid "Chatty Mouth" Mabel, had taken the words out of his mouth.  
  
"In Her ladyship's drawing room" Thomas said without sarcasm.  
  
"I didn't mean the clock, silly, I meant the clock _skills_" she pointed out.  
  
"How do you mean?" Thomas played innocent this time.  
  
"Usually it's the first footman's job to do maintenance of the clocks. And it's only the basics I gather, for whenever they break they're to be sent into York for reparations or they get replaced" she explained.  
  
Mr. Carson didn't know whether to be impressed at her observation skills or to bristle and tell her to go find something to do if she had the time to laze about and be savvy.  
  
"Oh, I told Harold I could do it" Thomas replied.  
  
"Well, yes. But how?"  
  
"Ah."  
  
They were all waiting for an answer. Mr. Carson grew more and more suspicious.  
  
"Why do you care?" So vexing, the lad was! Always sullen and difficult to get a word out of. That wouldn't have been a problem if not for the few words he did utter being constantly rude or sarcastic. Mr. Carson was _still_ waiting for an answer.  
  
"I'm curious" bless this girl's honesty, she could be so direct at times, no wonder Mrs. Hughes was getting white hairs. Not that Mr. Carson would ever point it out to her.  
  
"Mabel come help me with the linens-" and off she went without obtaining her answer. Fickle, as her usual.  
  
Thomas quietly kept up his work on the clock's engine and had it ticking again in a matter of seconds.  
  
"For future reference, Thomas: I prefer all oil fumes and stains to remain distant from the servant's hall. Next time, do your work outside where you won't be a bother" the butler pointed to his dirty fingers.  
  
Strange boy, he thought on his way to the library to serve the tea.  
  
A strange boy, indeed. But at least he was quick at polishing, without skipping over the quality of the work done. Even though he still didn't know what a lemon pick was.

* * *

That strange boy. That awfully strange tart of a boy. Mr. Watson was getting more and more irritated by the day. First he'd made friends with O'Brien and now he was _impressing_ the maids. At least the butler didn't seem to like him. Mr. Carson could certainly see the boy's malicious nature, just as Mr. Watson had.  
  
Altough he hoped the butler didn't have his same expectations. Well, that was a truly revolting mental picture. Nevermind that shuddering thought, Mr. Carson was such a prude he probably thought no men of that kind would ever set foot near his faint-hearted and noble Crawleys.  
  
So convinced he was, he probably didn't know he had one under his nose. Thomas, of course. Mr. Watson might not have minded sex altogether but he was ultimately a women's man, he was.  
  
He would marry one eventually and she would be higher in standing and richer than him. Unfortunately, the Crawley girls while pretty were both too young and out of his reach. He would have to move to a different house or wait for a friendly guest to come visit. Maybe an older cousin of the girls'. The right chance just simply hadn't come yet.  
  
But he wasn't worried about that, he was still in his thirties and his sandy hair was as perfect as ever, not a white hair in sight. No, he had time before he had to settle down. He could still have fun for a few years- if only O'Brien stopped stealing his boys away.  
  
Since that first day Thomas had been made footman Mr. Watson was inevitably annoyed by something new each following day. O'Brien had wasted no time in assuring the boy's loyalty and had whisked him away with the offer of a chat and a smoke immediately after lending him her own sewing kit, so fast he'd not even seen it coming.  
  
He had planned on congratulating the newly promoted Thomas and maybe lending him his own kit. Instead, he could only remind him of who had provided him with the opportunity in the first place, which had come out sounding more like a threat than a friendship offer.  
  
After that, he'd caught them all buddy-buddy outside a number of times and it seemed like she'd staked a claim on both footman and courtyard for her smokes. He was the one who had to leave and go back inside, now. His single presence was no longer the dominant one when he was in the minority. He hated it.  
  
He hated her. She'd been looking for a way to gain the upper hand on him since she'd joined in late '08 and he had grossly underestimated her. He'd unwittingly offered her the chance on a silver platter and had barely noticed her stealing it away, she'd been so swift.  
  
Now he had to go without even longer than he had already and he would have to play nice to get into the boy's graces. He would have to play twice as nice for he was reasonably sure O'Brien hadn't been fooled by his do-gooder act and was already poisoning Thomas's mind against him.  
  
Mr. Watson put the shoe down and reached for the spreading brush. He wished his employer would stop letting his dog lick his shoes like candies, they were a pain to look after.  
  
Just then Anna, the prettiest maid, came in with an armful of the girls' shoes which needed mending. Ah well, at least the day was turning around.

* * *

Edith barged in her sister Mary's room like it was her own, managing one annoyed and one condescending glance from Mary and Anna in turn, as she often did. Mary was trying on the blue shoes with the newly added silver bow. She almost fell when she put her foot wrong but after a lifetime spent with two younger sisters who had never learnt to knock she stood up easily and glared at Edith with all she had.  
  
"Anna what's this news I heard about a new second footman? I thought only Harold had remained" she pouted- Harold wasn't a beauty to look at.  
  
"His name is Thomas, m'lady. He must be around your age I believe" she grinned again. Mary huffed.  
  
"He's only a footman, Edith."  
  
Thomas was actually closer to the youngest of the three Crawley sisters in age but he did look older what with his face already devoid of the ugly spots which had devastated Harold's chin the whole time he'd been second footman. The now first footman seemed to have found a remedy, some kind of pomade to smooth them along- and thank the Lord, he was older than Anna and well into his twenties. It was about time he learnt to get rid of those horrible pimples.  
  
Anna returned to the conversation when she heard Lady Mary's remark at her sister's excitement.  
  
"Honestly, how could you not notice him? Never before have we had such a pretty face around" Mary said with a haughty look of superiority. She had noticed him immediately the first time he had poured her tea. Graceful, sharp _and_ good-looking: everything to hope for in a footman.  
  
"I did notice, that's why I asked Anna! How long has he been here?"  
  
"About a month, m'lady" longer even than Mary had known, then. Well she wasn't about to let Edith know that. The girls' banter continued like it usually did.  
  
Anna thought briefly on Thomas's age, the clock-working skills he had displayed earlier, the capable hands that had fitted and sewn the livery expertly with Ms. O'Brien's needle, never pricking a finger once. He surely had many talents and was a quick learner but it didn't look like he'd served before.  
  
Quiet, sullen, when he wasn't on his own he was out smoking with Ms. O'Brien. Not the best for company, then. Maybe that was why those two seemed to get along splendidly. Pity, he would have made for a nice friend if the crabby older woman hadn't grabbed him first.

* * *

"Lady Sybil! Lady Sybil!  
  
She was tracking mud all over the floors and rugs, she knew it. She kept running. It wouldn't do to be caught by the housekeeper while tracking mud _and_ running in the hall.  
  
"_Lady Sybil!_"  
  
"I'm sorry Mrs. Hughes!" Sybil panted, taking the big staircase three steps at a time, the dog bounding up after her. She was in a hurry!  
  
She had to change quickly and then go down to the library- forget changing, there where maids in her room's corridor- back down the stairs then and _straight_ to the library to find-  
  
"Papa! Papa. Pah-" she caught her breath "Papa have you heard? Halley's Comet is bound for the middle of May!" she'd heard the news in the village and had run back home braving the pouring rain to tell him _immediately_.  
  
Lord Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham looked up at his youngest darling daughter with affection clear in his gaze.  
  
"Oh? And how would they know that?"  
  
"They said it reached the periheli-hum... the peri-hulm... he peri_helium_ on the 20th!" she exclaimed.  
  
Now, Lord Grantham was as excited for the Comet's arrival as his daughter was, in spite of the fatalistic propaganda trying to convince everybody it would be the end of the world as they knew it. It hadn't come in January, it wouldn't come this time.  
  
"Do you think it will be as big as the Great Comet, Papa? I hope so, it will be mesmerizing to watch!"  
  
Now, was was he thinking? There was a nagging thought at the back of his mind. He scratched Pharaoh's head and let him lick his shoes. Ah yes, he was excited for it.  
  
Halley's Comet had been seen arriving far back in September the previous year and many had been mistaken in thinking it had come fast enough to be visible by the naked eye in early January. Further studies had proven that one extraordinarily bright comet had in fact been a completely different one but the wonder at the experience had been immense.  
  
He had camped out more than one cold day and night on the front lawn with blankets, a fire and hot tea to witness the beauty of it.  
  
His girls had joined him at times, although Cora never stayed longer than a few minutes and the older children had been far too delicate to stay long after their mother had gone inside. Sybil however, young and peppy Sybil, she had fully enjoyed staying out with him, burrowing in the blankets by his side while looking up at the sky.  
  
"I certainly hope so, my dear"  
  
Was there something else he should say? That nagging thought was still there. No, he was just excited for the comet even if he didn't show it by jumping around the library like his unruly daughter was doing, riling up the dog.  
  
But something was bothering him. It had been bothering him ever since she had bounced through the doors with her enthusiastic chatter and her rain-soaked hair and her dripping gown and her muddied boots and-  
  
Oh. _Oh._  
  
The side door to the library opened and the younger footman, Thomas, had called in the butler for help. The man's eyebrows rose dangerously towards the ceiling.  
  
Sybil stopped her feet and remained frozen-like before the thunderous stare fixed on her by Carson, sweet and gentle Carson. Even Pharaoh had quit his jumping with her, though his tongue was still lolling, his ears were still dripping and his tail was still wagging. Sending muddy water everywhere on the rugs, the sofa's back, the chair's legs and Lord Grantham's own pants.  
  
She then saw Mrs. Hughes entering the room and critically assessing what was an absolute disaster situation in the hall and library. The girl's shoulders drooped in an almost comical way.  
  
Now, when faced with Carson's stare even Robert sometimes felt like a child again, being chastised. But it was nothing in the face of the housekeeper's ire. Even he knew better than to provoke that look on her face.  
  
Her look of utter disappointment was the most disheartening he'd ever witnessed, even more so because she would never lose her calm and would never look for retaliation. Very simply, she went quiet and looked eerie.  
  
When she finally spoke there was a touch of icyness that was rarely heard in her normally warm scottish drawl.  
  
"Lady Sybil, please come with me. The maids will be in to clean up momentarily m'lord." and with that she walked out, fully expecting to be followed. She was, with a quivering chin and not a peep on Sybil's part. The dog followed happily behind, with Thomas desperately trying to keep him in line and avoid him brushing against all the furniture on their way out.  
  
"Oh dear" was all Robert could think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third chapter is completed but needs reviewing before posting. I don't have a beta so it might still take a few days (alas, real life is a bitch). Inspiration is there, as is the plot outline. This work will never be abandoned. Thank you to everyone who left kudos!


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